How to Forget
by Elphaba'sGirl
Summary: "Jack, the trouble's not in wantin' to forget, but in not knowing thatcha wanna remember."


**So, this is my second oneshot for this fandom. I wrote this one and Role Models the same day, but this took a while longer to edit because of the POV. I had some trouble writing the newsboy slang, so any pointers would be appreciated.**

**Disclaimer: I think that one word says enough, don't you?**

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"You got a mama?"

"Yeah," Les says, smiling, "I got a papa too."

The other newsies laugh a little. Les and Davey having parents isn't that big a deal. I guess we all did at one point, just most don't remember.

Most think- and I agree, most days- that it's easier to forget. If you don't got a past, you can focus on the future. In the grand scheme of things, the past don't matter too much.

Who'm I to say that though? I can't remember too much of my life before I started sellin' papes. I joined the newsies when I was eight.

Back then, the oldest was a guy called Vice; he was fifteen and the best salesman this side 'a Broadway, not that anyone woulda hired him. He talked rough ta Cameron Digger, who sold us the papes back then (this was before Weasel's reign of terror, 'course Digger was just as bad), but he stood by the younger boys when we got in trouble, (which was often).

He dressed in dark pants cut jaggedly at his shins, (he said they used to be dress slacks, 'fore he got 'em) and the same faded denim shirt most days, and he wore a cowboy hat on his head.

Vice couldn't remember where he came from, he said, and he was happy. Happier than the rest of the newsies, at any rate. I asked him 'bout it once. He told me he meant to forget, that it made things easier.

He was our hero, and he used ta pat m' head and smile at me like I was somethin' special. He was dazzling, and in those moments, if I coulda stayed there, in the warmth of 'is smile forever, I would have. Vice was the closest thing I had ta family. I told him that I wanted to forget too. He said, "Jack, the trouble's not in wantin' to forget, but in not knowing thatcha wanna remember."

And I said that I didn't want to remember, and he shook his head and smiled. "Yeah, ya do."

Next day, he said, "Tell ya what, Jack. Let me hang onta your memories for ya. Then you can forget, knowin' that if you even want 'em back, you can have 'em."

So I told him everything, every detail of my life, up ta that moment.

'Course I started forgetting straight away, and I got happier and happier as the days went by. I grew up a little, and with my memories gone, the newsies were my only family. I wasn't weighed down by my past, and my thoughts were pinned on the future.

Vice, though few noticed, grew thinner and thinner each day, and offered one less smile each morning, and sold a few less papes each week. His black, torn slacks came only to his knees now, but the waist was much too wide.

And no one but me noticed, 'cause he still acted happier than the other newsies, and still used his money to buy clothes and food for the kids in the refuge.

Nobody realized that he carried on his shoulders the weight of all our memories, while we went about our business and lost ourselves in a world of headlines and nickels.

'Till one morning, he was gone. Just gone. All that was left was his cowboy hat, which I found sitting atop my sloppily folded shirt and worn shoes come morning, the inside of the brim bearing the words "Santa Fe," in beautiful, scrawly script.

Well, that was the first I heard of the city, but I learned 'bout it soon enough. It was a new little town out west, where it's clean and green and pretty, and it's already home 'fore you even know a soul.

I was fifteen then, the oldest of our band of newsies, and when they learned where Vice had gone, only two of us tried to follow him.

One was a skinny little thirteen-year-old, Aiden.

The other was me.

See, between the facts I'd learned 'bout the city, there were a lot 'a blanks that I filled in myself. The way I pictured Santa Fe, any newsie alive woulda joined us. Swapping tales 'round the fire, friends as close as family, and a brand new city built of clay... It was enough to drive a boy insane. 'Specially a boy who ate one small meal on a good day and dreamt at night about loving people who stroked his hair and kissed his forehead, who took care of him when he was sick. 'Specially a boy who only wanted someplace ta call home.

Eventually, most in our old band moved on from sellin' papes. Some 'a the lucky ones found work elsewhere, some were put in the refuge, and some resorted to thievery as their only source of income (not ta say, 'a course, that I didn't do a share of stealing; I did. But with good reason). And some found a way out of the city.

I didn't blame them. I still don't. And some part 'a me wants ta join 'em.

But I couldn't.

I had to stay, look after the boys.

There were always new newsies, and they all carried heavy burdens called memories. It was all I could do to help lighten that load a bit, to be happy 'n kind, a brother of sorts.

I held onto the memory of Vice, kept his cowboy hat with "Santa Fe" on the brim close.

Some of the boys called me a legend, 'specially after I escaped from the refuge. I used only a dime a day on food for myself, and the rest went to the refuge kids and some of the less adept salesboys among us.

And still, it was never enough, and all I could think was that Vice coulda helped more than me.

So I followed his lead, took their burdens, let them forget. They were all happier after that.

But it's lonely sometimes. I'm the only one that knows that Romeo's parents named him Henry Jones, or that they were killed in a riot.

I'm the only one who knows that Racetrack's folks fell short three dollars on their rent, and that's when he started as a newsie.

I'm the only one remembers a bright spring day, when two boys tried to hitch a ride on a moving train headed southwest, to Santa Fe. I'm the only one who remembers Aiden fallin' offfa the train, onto the track.

He'd have died if I hadn't dragged him off the tracks.

As it is, it's my fault that he can't walk without that bloody crutch.

**Questions, comments, concerns, favorite lines? **


End file.
